


Estranged Faith

by ChiaRoseKuro



Series: Fortune Favours the Faithless [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF!Narcissa, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Humor, Misunderstandings, Morally Ambiguous Malfoy Family, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Intrigue, Possibly Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Vaguely Crack-ish, or more like she just doesn't give a shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiaRoseKuro/pseuds/ChiaRoseKuro
Summary: A perfectly good Sunday afternoon, post-Draco and pre-supper, saw Narcissa dragged from a social visit by an owl. What transpires isn't exactly life-altering, but... well. Things could certainly have gone better.Alternately: Lucius and Narcissa completely misunderstand each other, Harry learns about magic several years too early and everything else through the most dubious means, and Draco gets a birthday present he doesn't properly appreciate until years later. Oh, and the Wizarding World is thrown into chaos, but what else is new?





	1. Things are Amiss

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, the desire for selfish Malfoys to adopt Harry and screw with the Wizarding World at the same time turned into a vaguely crack-y premise with subterfuge, omissions of truth and hiding in plain sight. It probably didn't help that I incorporated some of my favourite headcanons from other stories; namely, Narcissa as Draco's very indulgent but very morally ambiguous mother, Lucius as the bumbling evil with delusions of grandeur, and Harry as the eternally cynical but infinitely wiser child than everyone might suspect. Draco will remain as his whiny, bratty self until this 'verse dictates otherwise.
> 
> If you're not prepared to suspend your disbelief, tolerate minor personality shifts in the name of an alternate canon, or deal with hints of homosexuality (or hero-worship, depending on how you view Draco's relationship with Harry later on), I suggest pressing the 'back' button right about now. Canon will be incorporated whenever and wherever possible, but it'll be less canon and more details from Rowling's canon!verse, like spell names and the Manor's appearance. Whatever can't be scrounged from the books (and possibly the movies, if I bother re-watching them) will come from my own imagination. The story will predominately be told from Narcissa's POV, but will switch between Harry, Lucius and Draco at certain points.
> 
> Special thanks to Lomonaaeren's [Narcissa Militant series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/759120) for providing inspiration and my overactive imagination for choosing to write this, instead of being good and bothering with my current WIPs. I expect this fic to cover the time from Narcissa's 'adoption' of Harry until his first year of Hogwarts, but I won't make any other predictions. Goodness knows I'm terrible with word count and chapter estimates anyway.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea is cut short, things are dull despite the heightened excitement, and Narcissa fears for Lucius', the Muggles' and Potter's intelligence, at various intervals. It's just a good thing that everything coincidentally works out (what do you mean, plot is at work? Of _course_ it's just serendipity).

* * *

 

Naturally, Narcissa’s life has to be upended on a perfectly good Sunday afternoon.

She hadn’t recognised it as such at the time, of course; the last Seer in the Black family had been hexed off the tapestry several generations back, but it was more for consorting with a Mudblood than anything else. Be that as it may, Narcissa was no Seer and did not, in fact, possess the sort of power necessary to ruining her husband’s life over a few babbling sentences—that dubious honour was reserved for malicious gossip, which she was careful to never _openly_ engage in—so. A perfectly good Sunday afternoon, post-Draco and pre-supper, saw her dragged from a social visit by an owl.

There wasn’t much to Lucius’ message. There were always those little moments when his paranoia overtook his maturity and he wrote in invisible ink, often in code and nearly always over trivial matters, but this didn’t seem to be one of them. Narcissa’s guest for the afternoon, a Ministry official with the impudence to believe they were friends and who only got away with it because she needed to keep her name clear, had excused herself when Narcissa had bade her, but even the use of borderline-illegal spells uncovered nothing.

Only a neatly scrawled, _Meet me in our bedroom in ten minutes_ , and a sense of mystery to it all.

Had Draco succumbed to a delayed allergic reaction? Had someone else stuck their nose into the closed Ministry case on Lucius’ Imperius claim and demanded it be re-opened again? The questions whirled around in Narcissa’s head as she stood from her chair, waved the owl off and departed, clutching the strange scrap of parchment in her hand.

Much to her consternation, Lucius was nowhere to be found when she arrived at their bedroom. This had followed on the heels of relief, which had settled around her like a well-worn cloak when she had popped into Draco’s room and found him napping peaceably, and irritation, which had washed over her when an ill-mannered house-elf almost Apparated on her foot for no apparent reason. For all that their life had settled down after the Wizarding War, when Lucius had been cleared of all charges through the ignorance of some and the avarice of others, some things just weren’t the same.

With nothing better to do, Narcissa set herself up beside the window and began to mentally draft a stern lecture to their house-elves. Goodness knew some of them were old and batty enough to need the threat of clothes to keep them in line.

Narcissa had just gotten to a few choice insults—the sort that she loved most, which were pleasant up until one used their brain a little—when the fireplace flared green and spat her husband out. Having never been a particularly graceful Floo traveller, Lucius emerged with a slight stumble and specks of soot in his hair, which she rectified by placing a cool hand on his shoulder and Vanishing the mess off with a flick of her wand. When she pressed her lips to his cheek, though, she didn’t receive her customary murmur of thanks.

Rather, she received a _very_ uncharacteristic smirk, made all the more strange by the twinkle in Lucius’ eyes.

“My dear,” Lucius started, reminding Narcissa so strongly of Dumbledore that she couldn’t help arching a brow at him, “I’ve received the most _wonderful_ news.”

“Wonderful enough to cut Ms Jorkin’s visit short, I presume?” When Lucius showed no particular inclination to look abashed, Narcissa sighed and drifted to the nearest chair. “Please do inform me of this… news of yours, then.”

Although Lucius gave her a thoughtful, tight-lipped look at her words, he continued when Narcissa reclined in her seat and nodded at him. “There have been rumours circulating about the Boy Who Lived within the Ministry, as of late.”

This was, quite obviously, not news to Narcissa, given that Bertha regaled her with gossip as soon as she saw a willing audience, which Narcissa always took care to show herself as. However, as she was a caring wife and Lucius seemed incredibly taken with his own genius, she summoned up a smile and feigned interest.

“There is nothing concrete, of course; the Ministry are not… shall we say, comprised of the most _astute_ individuals.” Sharing an indulgent smile with her, Lucius settled in another seat and said, “With that being said, there are a few trustworthy officials who know of interesting things. During a visit with one such official—”

 _Because I couldn’t_ possibly _know of your sources, Lucius dear,_ Narcissa thought wryly.

“—I overheard a most _fascinating_ conversation between two Wizengamot members.”

Considering that most Wizengamot members lived up to the first part of their _esteemed_ title and were generally more concerned with staying awake in trials than doing anything of note, Narcissa found this a little hard to believe. Still, Lucius tended to sulk when he was denied his fun, so she did her best to keep her face blandly curious.

Narcissa was many things, but a heartless wife she was not.

Unaware of Narcissa’s drifting attention, Lucius carried on. “Cases of accidental magic are entirely too commonplace, as you know, and nothing serious gets done unless _Muggles—_ ” and here he paused for his customary sneer, which she mirrored perfectly, “—are involved. Of course, _some_ Muggle-loving fools try to raise a fuss about Obliviating the lot of them, but nothing ever comes from it.

“So imagine my surprise when I see Dumbledore, the champion Muggle-lover, hushing up a string of accidental magic cases!” Laughing in an uncharacteristically loud manner, Lucius shook his head and ran a hand through his loosely-tied hair. “Now why would he do that when _any_ old wizard knows how little everyone cares about accidental magic? Unless they’re Squibs or Mudbloods living like swine amongst those awful Muggles, but that’s irrelevant.”

“What does this have to do with the Boy Who Lived then, Lucius?” Narcissa asked, when it was clear her husband was cueing her to do so.

“I’m glad you asked!” While Lucius rubs his hands with a decidedly self-satisfied smirk, Narcissa politely refrained from rolling her eyes. “You see, all these cases have occurred in… what was the name… Little Wings? Small Whining? It doesn’t matter much,” Lucius snorted, airily waving his hand, “but if that old fool is kicking up such a fuss against an unprecedented Wizengamot trial… well, it _does_ seem awfully suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“And there is certainly no harm in verifying these rumours, of course.” Rising to her feet with a thin smile on her lips, Narcissa shared a knowing look with Lucius and glided over to caress her husband’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Nodding at the indulgent smile on her husband’s face, Narcissa swept out of the room. There was just enough time before dinner to do a little investigative work, and she knew _just_ where to start.  
  


* * *

  
Muggles, Narcissa finds herself concluding, are _idiots_.

This realization is not a new one, given her opinion on Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers in general. Narcissa’s seen enough of their terrible conduct and heard enough of their unbelievable rubbish to guess at the backward society they either grew up in or supported—or did both, for reasons she could never quite fathom—but seeing and hearing is, quite regrettably, different from _knowing_. It’s a little like hearing about the use of Unforgivables and seeing them in action, except there is no comparison Narcissa can make to the Potter boy’s situation.

Narcissa may have only been spying on the Boy Who Lived for the better part of a week, but a few minutes was enough to make her feel sick. Given that she had seen Bella’s idea of a good time without batting a lash, she doesn’t exactly know why she has a reaction at all, but she has one anyway. Watching Muggles under the Cruciatus is one thing, but watching an overgrown whale of a boy pound the Saviour of the Wizarding World into the ground is another entirely. She had always believed that Muggles were animals, but…

Seeing this behaviour up close just about confirms it. Seeing this behaviour, and then seeing the adults sneer and sigh at the boy’s bruises? Calling them animals feels too generous, now.

Not everything is clear to Narcissa, of course. She can only guess at the blood relation between the stick-like woman who barks at the Potter boy and coos over the overgrown whale—whose name is so patently ridiculous that she can’t even bring herself to _think_ it—but there is no need for guesswork when it comes to their feelings for one another. If anyone looked at her son the way Potter’s… _family_ … looked at him, she would make them beg for the Cruciatus when she was done torturing them.

One of the Muggles carrying on shrilly beside her flinches when Narcissa’s magical power escapes her, for a moment, but she reigns it in with a concentrated effort and the silly thing settles down. Vapid strains of gossip pass over her as she stands apart from the parents and caretakers lingering at the gate, but she does nothing to listen or engage in conversation. Those intelligent enough to recognise her aristocratic looks and perfect posture—even beneath a Glamour that has charmed her hair a dull brown and her eyes the same boring shade—can continue to stare wistfully at her, for all she cares.

 _She_ has a purpose that will be carried out today, because Draco’s eighth birthday is in a week and nothing will ruin it for him.

From what Narcissa’s observed of the Boy Who Lived, the afternoon often pans out in one of two ways: either he will be one of the first to leave, or he will be one of the last. The former tends to happen when he doesn’t have to wait for anyone to pick him up, which is often the case when the overgrown whale leaves with his gang of small, rodent-like friends. The latter tends to happen when the stick-like woman—accompanied, once, by a larger version of the overgrown whale—come to pick the two up.

There’s probably some sort of pattern to it, but a week of observation is hardly going to give Narcissa a good indication of what it is. Besides, the monitoring charms that she’d placed around the school have told her enough of what’s going on, and she’d rather this not continue.

Not because Narcissa _cares_ for the Boy Who Lived or his treatment by the Muggles, of course. She just has… _better_ things to do, that’s all.

When the bell jangles in that irritating way Muggles use to signify the end of school, Narcissa shakes herself from her thoughts and watches the gates with a keen eye. It doesn’t escape her notice that, though the vapid chatter is still going on around her, some of the Muggles around her have also taken to watching the gates like a hawk.

So when a familiar and rather scruffy head of black hair almost shoots past her, Narcissa finds herself on the receiving end of several stares when she leans forward and captures Harry Potter’s arm. She’s not surprised when he flinches, spins and then narrows his eyes at her for it.

“Harry?” Narcissa asks in a perfectly quavering tone, enough to appease some of the deeply suspicious looks coming from other parents. “I… Is that really you?”

Even though the frown smooths into something disturbingly neutral on Potter’s face, his eyes are still narrow and flinty when he says, “Do I know you?”

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Kneeling to his height and allowing her hands to flutter over his body, Narcissa notes the last of the stares fading into indulgent smiles as she murmurs, “It’s just… I knew your parents—”

 _Which is almost true,_ Narcissa thinks wryly to herself, recalling one too many nights spent listening to Severus’ drunken babbling mixing with Lucius’ indecorous snores.

“—and I couldn’t… I just couldn’t…” Swiping a hand over her conveniently misty eyes, Narcissa gives the Potter boy a wobbly smile.

He might not be fully convinced, if the subdued glint in his eyes is anything to go by, but everyone’s distracted by their kids and Narcissa’s almost certain nobody will give them a second glance anymore. Besides, the Boy Who Lived seems more than content to accept her invitation to tea “as a favour to your mother and father”—and that, more than anything else, is nearly enough to crack her façade and make her smile.

Nearly, because Narcissa’s too professional to let it, but it’s a close call.  
  


* * *

  
One mild Confundus and one strong Notice-Me-Not later, Narcissa finds herself seated at a passably clean Muggle café, watching the Saviour of the Wizarding World stuff his face with cake and doing her utmost not to sneer at her cup of coffee. She’s honestly not sure if it’s coffee or half-sentient sludge fished from the Great Lake’s depths, given its noxious fumes and sporadic bubbling… but then again, these are Muggles. She wouldn’t be surprised if someone had told her their fur coats were made from illegally poached Puffskeins.

Shuddering delicately at the thought, Narcissa turns her attention to the Boy Who Lived and does her best to suppress another little shudder. If she hadn’t been… _observing_ him, as it were, throughout the last week, it would be all too easy to attribute his messiness to an inadequate upbringing.

 _Whilst that may be accurate to a certain degree,_ Narcissa thinks discontentedly, _it would be far too easy to draw the wrong conclusions from his behaviour._

It takes far more willpower than Narcissa would’ve imagined to keep her face and hands relaxed, but she manages in time to meet the Potter boy’s curious stare.

“You said… you said you knew my parents, earlier,” he mumbles—a deplorable habit Narcissa had been careful to train Draco out of, but one that couldn’t be helped when the boy’s guardians were what they were. She only has a moment to be grateful for some semblance of manners when he asks, “Could you please tell me about my mum and dad?”

“What do you know about them, Harry?” Narcissa asks, instead of answering him.

She’s not going to pretend she’s not curious, especially when the Potter boy’s face closes up, but she manages to summon up a spark of sympathy for him. Besides, it’s not like anyone will ever know if it’s more derision for Dumbledore and his brainless minions than anything else.

“Aunt Petunia told me they were drunks,” Harry eventually says, “who died in a car accident.”

If Narcissa wasn’t so appalled, she might’ve succumbed to _incredibly_ uncouth laughter.

Narcissa’s not particularly surprised, in all honesty. Given the lengths Dumbledore has gone to hide the Saviour of the Wizarding World, it stands to reason that he’d neglect everything else—especially if it concerns his ultimate weapon against the Dark Lord. Old and wise he may seem, but only the idiotic or wilfully blind would be taken in by his grandfatherly façade.

 _My opinion of Severus dwindles by the second,_ Narcissa mentally concludes, patting the Boy Who Lived and idly noting the way he flinches before settling into her touch. _Perhaps his devotion to the Mudblood has been superseded by the champion Muggle-lover._

“That is not true at all,” Narcissa murmurs, secretly delighting in the Potter boy’s speculative look. “Your parents were killed by a man I dare not name.”

It’s accurate enough, in a sense; Narcissa may not be fanatical or fearful, but she has enough brains to keep from uttering the Dark Lord’s title. Besides, Muggles don’t have the same idea of Lordship as Purebloods do, and the effect would be lost on a boy that, from the looks of things, does not fear names and reputations as much as he should.

Sure enough, the Potter boy asks, “Why not?”

“Because names have power,” Narcissa replies slowly, placing a cool hand on the boy’s arm, “and this man has done… terrible things. Your parents were not the only ones he murdered.”

“So he’s a serial killer.”

“Yes,” Narcissa says, when it is clear that the Potter boy has nothing more to add. “Of all those he has attacked, only you have lived to see another day.”

“But why?” If Draco had looked at her like this, eyes wide open and lips drained bloodless, Narcissa wouldn’t have hesitated in providing comfort. As it is, she can’t help patting the woefully thin arm beneath her hand when he breathes in harshly and says, “It’s not like I’m _special_.”

 _And that is a problem,_ Narcissa thinks to herself, equal parts triumphant and thoughtful. _But perhaps…_

“Everyone is special.” Arching a brow at the boy’s sceptical look, Narcissa adds, “Of course, people like your Aunt Petunia seem to be a _different_ sort of special I would not wish to be, but you and I are special for many reasons beyond that.”

Smiling lightly at the Potter boy’s reluctant but amused grin, Narcissa casually asks, “Have you ever heard of magic, Harry?”

Immediately, the grin disappears.

“It’s not real,” he whispers, shaking his head a little. “It—It _can’t_ be.”

“Have you ever had things happen to you that you couldn’t explain?” Lucius, perhaps, might think it a good idea to reveal what he knew about the Potter boy’s accidental magic, but Narcissa keeps her smile small but encouraging as he sucks in a deep breath and stares at his fingers solemnly.

“They called me a _freak_.” Narcissa lets herself go very, very still as the Boy Who Lived mutters, “I thought it was the wind when I got on the roof… and my _hair_ … but it wasn’t…

“It was all magic, in the end.” The Potter boy’s— _Harry’s_ —eyes are a startling, piercing green when he stares into Narcissa’s eyes, so intense that she almost considers turning away. “The man who killed my parents— _he_ had magic too, didn’t he?”

“And so do I,” Narcissa says, drawing her wand—for the second time, but Harry doesn’t need to know about the Confundus or Notice-Me-Not just yet—and letting sparks shoot out the tip. “You are a wizard—”

“But nobody told me.” Unaware of Narcissa’s assessing look, Harry averts his eyes and curls into himself a little. “Magic took away my parents and it helped me, sometimes, but it didn’t…”

 _It didn’t help you enough,_ Narcissa completes in her mind, pursing her lips as light tremors race up her hand and Harry swipes roughly beneath his glasses with his free hand. _Imagine what the wizarding world would think if they knew—_

_But what’s stopping them from knowing?_

“Do you want me to help you?” Narcissa asks gently. When Harry’s head snaps up to look at her, she lifts her hand from his arm and holds it up, stopping him from interrupting her. “Before you say yes or no, you should know that you can’t tell your guardians _anything_.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Harry cocks his head to a side as Narcissa blinks at him, but shrugs and adds, “They hate anything strange, and making myself stranger would be worse. Besides, you look nicer than them. I can’t say I trust you, but…”

 _How direct,_ Narcissa can’t help thinking, but says, “That is fine. I daresay I would not trust a stranger with much, either.

“If you ever seek to leave your guardians and learn more about your—”

_Birthright. Power. Influence._

“—magic, Harry, you need only look for me at the school gates and I will be more than happy to tell you whatever you’d like. Until then…”

Gracefully alighting from her chair, Narcissa brushes a hand over Harry’s hair as she says, “Know that there are people who love you dearly.”

There’s something fragile in Harry’s eyes when Narcissa turns away, preparing to end the spells she’d cast, but she keeps her lips pursed and as neutral as she can. Lucius will be expecting her and Draco for supper in an hour’s time and, much as she wishes to learn more about the Saviour, family comes first.

Except Harry’s blurting out, “I don’t want to go back to them!” behind her and, when she turns, his teeth are digging into his lower lip and his hands are clenched into fists by his side. Narcissa pauses with her wand aloft, looks at the determined by uncertain gaze, and…

Well. Who is she to turn away from such a tantalizing gift?

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Harry says, looking as stubborn and serious as a child could be.

“I see.”

With a faint flourish, Narcissa removes a pin from her hair and taps it with her wand, before offering one end to Harry. When he looks bemusedly between her hand and her face, she murmurs, “This will take us to my home. It will be uncomfortable, but I suspect you won’t mind it much.”

“Not if it means I won’t have to go back _there_ again,” Narcissa thinks she hears Harry mumble, but he holds onto it without another word and she lets it go for the time being.

Later, Narcissa will ask Harry about his relatives, if she has guessed correctly and the overgrown whales are, indeed, blood relatives to his Aunt Petunia. Later, she will hear everything about him and start planning—for the day Dumbledore will fall, for the reflected glory of saving the Saviour and for other, loftier things.

For now… Narcissa lets a smile bloom on her face and doesn’t let it drop, even when the Portkey activates and rips her back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who know that Portkeys are made with the _Portus_ incantation, let's assume that Narcissa's capable of doing it non-verbally. Also, it's not like anyone checks on Harry, so it's okay if a concerning amount of magic is used around his school and a decidedly Muggle cafe... even if Dumbledore somehow has access to Harry's records of accidental magic and doesn't bother with figuring out _why_ Harry needed so many instances of accidental magic to begin with.
> 
> Yeah, I'm not Dumbledore's biggest fan, either.


	2. Deceiving the Deceivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of introductions, ranging from the Manor to Narcissa to even a crotchety old house-elf, ensue. Meanwhile, Lucius applauds himself for his own cleverness and Harry is given a bed—and a room! Life is good for everyone (except Draco, who’s _still_ waiting in the wings, but semantics).

* * *

 

Three seconds of terrible vertigo later, Narcissa catches herself in time to land on her feet. It had taken much of Mother’s time to perfect her arrivals, especially given the nausea that had never diminished down the years, but only a select few have ever perfected it and she takes the time, now, to silently thank her for it. Unsurprisingly, Harry sprawls on his back when he lands, thudding heavily against the driveway and almost knocking a peacock off the hedge on the way down, so it’s also no surprise to hear him groaning as he flops onto his belly.

Tucking the pin back into her hair, Narcissa stifles to urge to sneer as she offers Harry a hand. When he scrambles to his feet, takes one look at her impeccable state and blushes, she only shakes her head and smiles. He’s just about to offer his thanks when his face turns an interesting shade of green.

Needless to say, the peacocks are unamused when he almost throws up on them.

“Allow me,” Narcissa murmurs, waving her wand at the unsightly splatter on the hedges and pausing when she turns it upon the boy. As soon as he’s done eyeing it and nods hesitantly, she whispers a few Healing charms to remove the worst of the pain and nausea, but surreptitiously slips a Glamour over his face so that his hair is neater, his eyes are a less striking grey and his scar is hidden from view.

From the way Harry gasps and clumsily pats his ribs—where, no doubt, they’ve stopped hurting him quite as much as before—it’s clear that he hasn’t noticed the Glamoured additions.

_Then again,_ Narcissa thinks, waiting for Harry to settle down, _it’s not like he has any experience with Glamours._

“Before we enter my home,” Narcissa says, when Harry’s eyes are firmly on her again, “I need to apologize for deceiving you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, tensing and narrowing his eyes at her. “The stuff about magic seems alright, but—do you not know my mum and dad? Or are you one of those people who left me with—”

“Perhaps,” Narcissa delicately says, casting a _Finite_ at her face, “it might be easier to show you.”

When he’s done blinking at her paler hair and eyes, Harry manages a weak, “Oh.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa can’t help saying, tucking her wand away and smiling coolly at Harry’s embarrassed flushing. “I—well, perhaps I should have been clearer with my words.”

It’s gratifying, if not a little annoying, to see Harry shuffle in place and mumble an apology, but Narcissa notes the way he’d been so quick to assume the worst. As her eyes idly trace the vivid red of his ears and cheeks, she feels her lips pursing at the things she’s noticed so far. Flinching from touches, jumping to the worst conclusions—she might not know Dumbledore’s reasons for placing Harry with Muggles when most wizarding families would fight for the right, but it’s clear she’ll never understand it anyway.

Sparing a thought for her darling Draco, Narcissa finally takes pity and adds, “Come, let me take you home.”

The closest peacock squawks raucously and flaps its wings, as though to hurry them away from its territory.

Curiously, Harry doesn’t ask about her Glamours. Oh, Narcissa catches him glancing at her face when he thinks he’s being discreet, but he’s strangely quiet beside her. The only noises he make are a startled gasp when they phase through the gates, little hand tightly clutching hers in the moments right before and after it, and a muffled squeak when a peacock catches him by surprise and screeches down at him.

Narcissa, for her part, doesn’t break the relative silence for much. In between pointing out places of interest, like the smaller lodge reserved for unmarried Malfoys who no longer wish to reside in the Manor, and offering tidbits on the flora and fauna, she takes the time to observe Harry.

Now that he’s not hidden behind a table, Narcissa can see the way Harry’s clothes are four sizes too large and riddled with loose threads. Draco may not be the best indication of average height or weight, given that she and Lucius are both taller and slimmer than many others, but no amount of bias can explain away the sharpness of Harry’s elbows or the slenderness of his fingers. The house-elves, Narcissa suspect, would delight in preparing more of the foods Draco secretly loves too, if only to add a little more flesh to Harry’s painfully visible bones. With enough nutrition, it might just be possible to make Harry look a little more like the nearly-eight-year-old he _should_ be.

It will take much more to correct the slump in his shoulders or his attitude, though. Somehow, Narcissa doesn’t quite think private tutors will be able to do much with a young charge accustomed to beatings, loneliness and what threatens to be a crippling lack of self-esteem.

_But that will make victory all the sweeter when it comes._

With that pleasant thought floating through her mind, Narcissa draws up beside the fountain, waves a hand at her home, and says, “Welcome to Malfoy Manor, my dear.”  
  


* * *

  
A house-elf—Lucius can never remember their names, mostly because there is never a reason to do so—hurries to his side when he steps out of the fireplace, somehow managing to bow around the flute of wine it’s holding in its hand. It stays long enough to see him take a sip and cast the wretched creature a withering glare for lingering, which makes it squeak and disappear in its usual noisome way, but he’s forgotten about it long before it’s gone. The wine, at the very least, is light and bubbly on his tongue. Narcissa would certainly like it more than him, but it suits his tastes well enough.

Speaking of his wife… Lucius frowns, settles into the nearest couch and allows his gaze to wander around the sitting room. He’d seen precious little of her around the Manor as of late, other than at the dining table and in their bed—and even Draco has noticed, if his lacking focus was anything to go by. It would do his son some good to foster his independence, of course, but if this is Narcissa’s way of promoting it…

_No, it would not be,_ Lucius concludes, sinking a little further into his seat with a noiseless sigh. _So what else would keep her so… occupied?_

Unsurprisingly, several things come to mind—but what ends up surprising Lucius is the speed with which he discards them all. Narcissa would never bear to leave the Manor to the house-elves’ tender care for long, even if some of their number had served either the Malfoys or the Blacks well before his time, and especially _not_ when Draco is taking his lessons. Her informants and acquaintances only ever see her in their plainest sitting room, which has been empty every time he’s glanced into it, and their mutual friends have not extended invitations to tea or evening balls this past week.

Of course, there is always the possibility that she is doing something he knows nothing about, but Lucius finds himself scoffing at the mere thought. Narcissa, his devoted wife, hiding something from _him?_ He may as well renounce his name and live wandless amongst the Muggles.

Inexplicably cheered by his conclusions, Lucius reaches for his flute and sips leisurely at his wine.

“Lucius,” someone murmurs from the doorway, and Lucius smiles when he turns his head around.

_Yes, everything is well with Narcissa,_ Lucius thinks contently, before pressing a kiss against his wife’s cool hand.

For a moment, he feels her hand twitch beneath his lips, but Narcissa’s face is smooth and serene when Lucius lifts his head to look at her. She dips her head in a shallow curtsey before he can say or do anything, glances at the flute in his hand, and allows a smile to grace her lips. It’s not enough to distract him from her aborted motion, of course, but he’s not going to deny the pleasure that flickers through him at his correct guess. Before she can say anything, Lucius summons a house-elf and instructs it to bring a flute for her, too.

They spend the next few minutes seated side by side, sipping their wine and enjoying each other’s company. Up close, Lucius can see every delicate detail and every minute shift in Narcissa’s expression, ripples in the smooth porcelain of his wife’s features, and an unbidden smile flourishes on his face. Yes, everything is well with her indeed.

When he’s done drinking in his fill of her, Lucius sets his flute down and turns expectantly towards her. Unsurprisingly, Narcissa follows suit, taking care to place hers _just so_ on the ottoman, precise as always.

“Narcissa,” Lucius says pleasantly, “where have you been this past week?”

Narcissa doesn’t quite freeze, but Lucius is pleased to note the way her lips thin and her eyes tighten a little. Allowing himself an indulgent smile, because his wife has just admitted to his unvoiced accusations and even her current attempts at smoothing her expression can’t change that simple fact, he leans forward and lays a hand atop hers.

No, it was a good thing that _he_ was political and _she_ stayed at home. Any of Lucius’ dissenters would be more than eager to snap up his wife’s weaknesses, few though there were.

“Let me guess,” Lucius murmurs, relishing the way Narcissa’s gaze darts to his. “Does this have anything to do with our… _discussion_ last Sunday? Or, perhaps, Ms Jorkins’ sudden interest in a certain child’s whereabouts?”

“Perhaps,” Narcissa echoes, bowing her head so that he cannot see directly into her eyes.

_Her tells are far too obvious,_ Lucius can’t help thinking, and says, “It is good that you are verifying the rumours, as it were, but must you draw attention to yourself so?”

Immediately, Narcissa lifts her eyes and stares into Lucius’ own. “Who else suspects?”

“Nobody else, I assure you,” Lucius replies indulgently, patting his wife’s hands as they tremble in her lap. “My dear, I am pleased that you wish to assist me, but it may be dangerous to push _too_ far. In future, _do_ leave such political manoeuvres to me.”

“Of course I shall,” Narcissa says faintly, and demurely lowers her gaze.

There’s no point inquiring after her efforts, of course; Lucius has investigated his own sources, but all he’s been able to confirm is the suburb’s name. As unfortunate as _Little Whinging_ sounds, other astute wizards following the same clues have run into the same dead ends. Narcissa is competent when she puts her mind to things, that much is evident, but even _some_ things are beyond her. No, it wouldn’t do any good for her to continue interfering—there was no room in the political realm for those whose beauty exceeded their intelligence in the political realm.

“Leave everything to me,” Lucius soothingly murmurs, “and fetch Draco for supper.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa replies deferentially, and clasps his hand for a moment before rising to her feet.

A house-elf Apparates in the room, takes Narcissa’s flute and Disapparates with it as she bends down to kiss Lucius’ cheeks. Something shimmers in his periphery for a moment, entirely at odds with his wife’s fair hair and the warm flicker of the fireplace, but it’s gone when Narcissa straightens and gives him an affectionate, if not somewhat unsteady, smile.

_I must have imagined things,_ Lucius later concludes, when Narcissa’s swept from the room.

Picking up his half-filled flute, Lucius toasts the air and sets about polishing it off.  
  


* * *

  
Harry’s nose is wrinkled when Narcissa lifts the Disillusionment Charm, likely from the way it feels as it crawls up his skin and floats off his hair. She’s not particularly fond of the sensation, herself, so it’s not hard to commiserate with his obvious emotional display. That’s not to say she wouldn’t do it again, of course—invisibility cloaks are expensive, difficult to acquire and frankly not worth their expiry dates—but, with any luck, there would be less sneaking around in the future.

For the time being, however, they could only sneak around. That isn’t to say Harry is any _less_ of a guest, but it is clear he still gets the distinction when Narcissa hears him gasp.

The room they are standing in isn’t the Manor’s largest or grandest, in all honesty. In the interest of keeping Harry’s stay a secret—for now, anyway—Narcissa had commandeered a rather archaic suite she’d hazily remembered. Several wrong turns on the way to dinner had allowed her to stumble upon it years ago, shortly after she’d married Lucius but long before Draco was born, and the image of those rooms had stuck with her. After all, few places in the Manor deviated from a monochrome palette.

Much like all those years ago, the walls strike her first. Several shades lighter than a cloudless summer sky, their soft blue complements the creamy coverlets atop the bed. It’s got just enough room to fit Harry if he lies spread-eagle on it, a far cry from the one Narcissa shares with her husband or the one Draco and his toy dragons occupy, but it’ll have to do. At least the dressers flanking it are roughly the same size as theirs, if not a little shabbier due to their boring grey colour and plain design.

“This—” Narcissa stares as Harry gulps audibly and tries speaking again. “I get to sleep _here?_ ”

“Is the room not to your liking, Harry?” Narcissa runs a critical eye over the room again, lingering on the wardrobes squatting ostentatiously beside them. “If you wish, I can summon the house-elves and acquire more tasteful furniture for you.”

Yes, the wardrobes _do_ seem a little conspicuous amongst all the plainer furniture, what with its elaborate draconic carvings and awful bronze colour. Narcissa can clearly see why Harry would take offence at it; the more she observes it, the more she’s tempted to call for a house-elf now.

“No, everything’s fine! Just.” Harry takes a steadying breath, looks Narcissa in the eye and blurts out, “Are you sure you’re okay with giving this to me?”

“But why would I object?” Barely stifling her puzzlement beneath an elegantly arched brow, Narcissa idly watches Harry flinch again when she reaches out to him. “I… well, I would offer better rooms under different circumstances—”

“You mean,” Harry faintly says, “these aren’t your best rooms?”

“No, they are not,” Narcissa replies, pursing her lips to prevent a frown from stealing across them. “Is there a problem with that?”

Some of her defensiveness must’ve slipped through, because Harry’s eyes are wide and horrified when he says, “This is really just fine! I just—I mean—”

“Yes?” Narcissa gently prompts, doing her utmost not to spit out something clipped.

“Well,” Harry mumbles—or Narcissa _thinks_ he mumbles, “I’ve never had a room, that’s all.”

“Did you share with your cousin?” Narcissa asks, a few beats too late.

“Uh,” Harry eloquently replies, and flushes to his roots.

It takes a while for her to pinpoint exactly what is wrong, but Narcissa arrives at the conclusion that the flush is neither from embarrassment nor shyness. In fact, by the time she diagnoses it as misery, he’s already given it away by the way he’s chewing his lip—yet another habit she will have to train him out of, just like she trained Draco out of it—and wringing his hands.

_Just give him a tea-cosy and he’ll be the perfect house-elf,_ Narcissa idly thinks, and…

_Oh._

“You had no room to call your own.” This time, Narcissa watches as Harry bows his head and shuffles in place, but does nothing to stop or chide him. “Your… relatives. They saw you as a servant, didn’t they?”

‘House-elf’ almost slips out instead of ‘servant’, but Narcissa’s glad she corrected herself in time when Harry peeks at her from beneath his fringe and nods, wary but decisive, at her question. Clearly, the distinction he has received is somewhat different from the one she’d expected him to have, both in regards to the room and his treatment in the Manor.

It will be entertaining, at the very least, to observe Harry when he makes the _right_ distinction. Just imagining the masses’ reactions to knowing the Boy Who Lived played _house-elf_ to _Muggles_ is almost enough to break her composure.

For now, Narcissa contents herself with saying, “We will be doing no such thing in the Manor. You will be our honoured guest so long as you choose to stay—but I do hope that we will be providing better rooms when I have explained the situation to my husband.”

From the small noise Harry makes, Narcissa’s almost certain he recognises Lucius as the man she’d talked and drank with in the informal lounge earlier. Of course, it will take some training and months of exposure for Harry to see Lucius as she does, but something tells her that his political awareness may be somewhat greater than Draco’s. It’s a disloyal thought, because she will always love her son more than the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but nonetheless true.

_He will have to learn,_ Narcissa distastefully thinks, _if he is to fool my husband and son for years to come._

Suddenly, the prospect of housing Harry in Malfoy Manor seems a little less enticing than before.

Rather than pursuing _that_ unsavoury train of thought, Narcissa claps her hands precisely and watches Harry’s eyes widen when a house-elf Apparates into the room, turns to them and bows. The house-elf—one of her mother’s most devoted and the most useful part of her dowry when she’d married into the Malfoy family—is decorous enough to keep its eyes on her at all times, so she deigns to give it a faint smile when it has greeted her properly and straightened up again.

“This is Cygni,” Narcissa says, inclining her head in the house-elf’s direction, “and will be attending to your needs until we have introduced you to my husband and son.”

“You have a son?” Harry blushes when Narcissa arches a brow, but manages to say, “I—I didn’t mean to be rude…”

“Forgiven,” Narcissa replies, before Harry can subside into apologetic mumbling. “However, I would like you to stay in these rooms and not seek him out until I have told you otherwise.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, smiling cheerfully as he wanders over to the bed and sits on it. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always told me to sit in my—uh, I mean, stay out of sight, so I’m used to it.”

_Another mystery to solve for another day,_ Narcissa notes, and turns to the house-elf still watching her. It’s disconcerting to stare into its pale blue eyes so, instead of holding its gaze, she directs her orders at the space above its head.

“Mistress Narcissa,” the house-elf squeaks when she’s done, bowing to her again before it turns to Harry’s unsubtly staring form. “Cygni is bringing supper to the little Master now.”

“Just—” Flinching at the loud _crack_ of the house-elf’s Disapparition, Harry mumbles into the empty air, “Just Harry is fine.”

There’s something strange in Harry’s eyes when the house-elf Apparates back in with supper, which appears to be a fruit pudding that Draco adores but Lucius doesn’t care much for. Even when the house-elf leaves to draw a bath, leaving Narcissa to do with Harry as she will, his eating is a little less voracious than before. Asking outright would be obtuse, though, so she settles with perching on the edge of the bed and watching as he polishes off his food.

Eventually, when the house-elf still hasn’t returned and they’ve been sitting in silence for long enough, Harry blurts out, “Does—Is Cygni treated well?”

“As well as any house-elf is treated,” Narcissa carefully replies, studying Harry without being too obvious about it. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when his fringe is in his eyes, but there’s no mistaking the way his hands are clenching into fists or his steadily deepening frown.

“It’s just.” There’s something unsteady in Harry’s voice, but he swallows noisily and says, “I just hope they weren’t—er, treated badly.”

It’s doesn’t surprise Narcissa when Harry gives up and stares stubbornly at his lap, as though it and it alone contains the secrets to the universe. What _does_ surprise her is the coldness settling over her bones; specifically, the speed with which it overwhelms her.

Yes, the masses would be _appalled_ to learn that their precious Saviour was reduced to this.

“House-elves may not be part of the family,” Narcissa smoothly say, when Harry’s hands have relaxed and he’s stealing glances at her, “but we do not abuse them cruelly or without reason.”

“That’s good,” Harry mumbles, trying for a weak smile.

_He should be fine, so long as the house-elves do not punish themselves around him._ Narcissa makes a mental note to pass this on as soon as possible and, oddly grateful for the lack of stuffed and mounted house-elf heads in the Manor, pats Harry’s shoulder.

“Refresh yourself and get some rest,” Narcissa murmurs, brushing Harry’s fringe back from his eyes and smiling gently at him, “so that we might be relaxed and alert for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry replies dutifully, and completely misses the way Narcissa quirks a brow at him.

“Just Narcissa will do.”

When Harry flushes a little and mumbles his assent again, Narcissa bestows a cool smile on him and rises to her feet. She leaves as the house-elf comes in to assist its new charge—because, thankfully, it has enough brains to wait before ushering Harry off to a bath—and closes the door behind herself, ruminating upon the boy she has left behind.

_Yes,_ Narcissa thinks, _it is a pity and a blessing that Dumbledore was too foolish to treat the child better._

With a faint smile still lingering on her face, Narcissa makes her way to Draco’s rooms so that supper may, finally, begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may have missed the undercurrents in this chapter... perhaps the next two or three will clear it up for you. In the interest of not ruining Narcissa's (or anyone else's) fun, I'll simply point out that disguises aren't just magical in nature—and even Narcissa's point-of-view sections aren't omniscient.
> 
> As much as she wishes she was in control of everything, she isn't (but if she hears about this, it wasn't from me).


	3. Fitting Filling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracies and Kneazles and more food, oh my! The children show up the adults, because nobody ever said that greater intelligence came hand-in-hand with greater common sense, and Narcissa learns that not all plans are set in stone ( _especially_ not if Draco has any say in things).

* * *

 

“There appeared to be something wrong with Dumbledore today,” is the first thing Narcissa hears when Lucius sits down to supper. It’s certainly not the first thing she expects—after all, nothing much tends to happen on perfectly normal Mondays—but Draco is looking wide-eyed at his father and she’s tempted to do the same.

Then again, the weekend had been a quiet affair, so perhaps this was making up for the lack of fuss Harry has made against his lessons or the house-elf’s attempts to spoil him. For all her initial misgivings, Narcissa’s been pleased with the way he’d soaked up on the books on wizarding history—of the _right_ sort, rather than the lies ‘acceptable’ histories posited—and magical theory. The Muggle school, at the very least, had taught the boy well when it came to learning new things.

As though sensing Narcissa’s wandering thoughts, Lucius turns to her and says, “I do not believe Dumbledore’s distress is public news, as of yet, but do tell me if you hear anything from anyone else.”

“Of course, Lucius,” Narcissa replies, putting aside her thoughts on Harry’s academic progress to smile faintly at her husband.

“But what could _possibly_ be wrong with Dumbledore?” Even though Draco’s trying for indignation, it’s all too easy for Narcissa to pick out the curiosity in his voice. “Isn’t he the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Chief Mugwump and the Wizengamot head and—and— _lots_ of things?”

“Yes, Draco,” Narcissa replies, smiling at her son even as Lucius turns his frown upon them. “However, you must keep in mind that even the most powerful of men can be flawed.”

“Especially if they have… _unfortunate_ sentiments and allegiances,” Lucius smoothly adds, allowing a cool smile to flow onto his face. It’s hard to tell if it’s in reaction to Draco’s informality or because he’s picked up on Narcissa’s subtle insinuations, but she’s not going to probe when her son is at hand.

After all, it wouldn’t do for Draco to disrespect his parents. _That_ , at least, is something both she and Lucius believe firmly in.

“Oh,” Draco says, turning back to his half-eaten supper with a faintly furrowed brow. “Well, it serves that Muggle-lover right for being stupid.”

“Language,” Narcissa chides, softening it with an amused smile. Draco may only indulge in his childishness when he thinks he can get away with it, but it would be terrible if he slipped up and said such things in front of an unsympathetic audience.

 _Let alone our supposed allies,_ Narcissa thinks, returning to her own supper. Some pureblood families might find it as amusing as she and Lucius do, but those who managed to escape the repercussions of the Wizarding War…

Narcissa keeps her bites even and economical until everything on her plate is finished, because doing any less would be indecorous and Draco, though polite and respectful when he tries, has yet to grasp the art of appearing refined. Her thoughts are squarely on improving her son’s manners when she rises from the table and turns to leave—but then Lucius gives her a significant glance, and she returns with the slightest of nods.

Draco requires more lessons on etiquette and Harry, more lessons in general. Narcissa occupies her mind with organizing both until Lucius joins her in their bedroom, but all her plans are forgotten when he divulges what, exactly, is wrong with Dumbledore today.  


* * *

  
Harry is polishing off the last of his porridge when Narcissa sweeps into the room, gives the house-elf a curt nod and watches it leave with a bow and a squeak. It’s rare for her to disturb the boy during meals and rarer still for her to dismiss the house-elf from their presence—it’s taken to cleaning with one eye on the furniture and one eye on Harry for reasons that she cannot _begin_ fathoming—so she’s not surprised to see him tense and gulp the rest of his milk. Even a Crup, she thinks disparagingly, would be able to see his nervousness.

Rather than keeping him in suspense, as she has done for her connection to his parents, Narcissa seats herself in an armchair—a welcome addition to the room that had been introduced on Harry’s first morning here—and watches him place his tray aside. Not a scrap of food remains on it, a feat that she, a fastidious eater, has only replicated sporadically, and it is yet another observation to file away. The more she learns about his Muggles, the more she’s inclined to raise her wand against them.

 _But this will suffice for now,_ Narcissa thinks, and effortlessly catches Harry’s eye.

“Your relatives have reported your disappearance to your Muggle authorities,” Narcissa says without preamble. Neither she nor Lucius have the faintest idea to their names, other than knowing they’re not called Aurors, so she keeps the details sparse as she tells Harry what she knows.

For a moment, Harry looks stricken, but he mumbles something under his breath and ignores the chiding look Narcissa gives him for it. Given that it is most probably uncouth and deriding the Muggles, though, she lets it slide this time.

“How do you know about it?” is the first thing Harry asks.

“Do you recall what I first told you about magic?” Granted, Narcissa’s fairly inundated Harry with knowledge on magic, from the way wands became more normal than wandless casting to the effects magic had on a wizard’s life expectancy, but Harry only pauses for a moment before he nods. “I was not the only one who knew you were a wizard.”

A heartbeat of silence, and Harry’s face _twists_.

“Other people _knew_ ,” Harry breathes, and it takes all of Narcissa’s considerable willpower to keep her face smooth and politely bland. “They knew I was a—that I had—and they gave me to the _Dursleys?_ ”

“Oh, Harry,” Narcissa says, smoothing a hand over Harry’s trembling ones and revelling in the way he only stares into her eyes, defiant but so very fragile. “If I had known earlier…”

“ _Other people knew_.” There’s wetness in his eyes but steel in Harry’s voice, a coolness that barely suppresses his fiery passion, and Narcissa is hard-pressed to find the bullied child she rescued in this boy when he says, “They were watching me, weren’t they?”

“I suspect so,” Narcissa replies with a cold, cautious nod.

“So they could have done something about it, but they _didn’t_ ,” Harry muses aloud. He takes back a hand to lift his glasses and scrub at his eyes, but his voice is steady as he adds, “and now… what? They’re scared I’ll tell someone about—everything?”

Beneath the steadiness is something Narcissa takes precious moments to discern, but it lights her up from the inside when she does. Harry has told her little—nothing direct, and certainly nothing if one was not as observant as her—but the dark promise in his voice…

 _I might not even have to ask. In fact, I do believe he might even tell me_ willingly _._

“I have some idea of what ‘they’ will do, and that might be one of them.” Narcissa contents herself with sitting still as Harry mulls over her words, but presses on when a frown tugs at his lips. “However, the greatest danger may not be what you can say, but what they can say against you.”

At Harry’s lost look, Narcissa elaborates. “Imagine if someone you knew, someone who was famous and trusted by everyone—”

_Which would be true if one were to believe Dumbledore’s delusions._

“—was accused of being a liar by someone else you knew, except the accuser is neither famous nor trusted.” When Harry nodded, a little vague but still timely, Narcissa adds, “Who would you believe?”

“Er,” Harry says, ruffling his messy hair until it stands straight up, “the first one, I guess.”

It takes a while, but Narcissa’s well-rewarded when Harry finally understands her point.

“That’s _stupid_ ,” Harry snarls, either unaware or uncaring of Narcissa’s pursed lips. “Isn’t there some kind of magic that tells people who’s lying and who’s not?”

 _Clever boy_ , Narcissa can’t help thinking as she says, “There is a potion that forces the drinker to speak the truth, but it can only be administered with the drinker’s permission.”

“So they could refuse.” This time, Narcissa has to keep her pride—and uneasy surprise—off her face when Harry says, “No matter what I do, they’re just going to put me back with the Dursleys again. What’s the _point_ in saving me from a serial killer if they’re going to ab—make my life miserable?”

“Perhaps,” Narcissa says delicately, gazing deep into Harry’s uncertain eyes, “it is true that _you_ may not be able to do much. Do remember, however, that you are not alone.

“I swear that you will never return to those Muggles for as long as I live,” Narcissa vows, and watches Harry’s face—not quite light up, but look just a little brighter and more hopeful than before.

He may not trust her yet—he may not even trust her that soon—but Narcissa savours the tentative emotions shining in Harry’s eyes and leaves with a smile on her face. It’s not trust, but it’s good enough to substitute as such for the time being.

 _And when I have secured a place for him,_ Narcissa muses, mind already leaping to the tangles and snarls in her plan, _there will be no doubts to where his trust lies._

 _I will make sure of it._  


* * *

  
There’s a faint crease between Mother’s brows, and Draco doesn’t like it.

The fact that it’s _there_ is unusual in itself, but Draco’s not as stupid as his parents sometimes thinks he is and he knows it’s connected to all the _other_ unusual things he’s been noticing—like how his mother poked her head into his room and woke him from his nap and how, for the week after that, she hadn’t been around much. He’s seen her a little more, during the weekend, but in between French with a distant Malfoy and Potions with Severus and all his other lessons, he hasn’t seen her much.

Even their teas have been quiet, and that was just _weird_. _His_ mother is the most beautiful and the most well-mannered of all his friends, but she _always_ used to listen and laugh at his stories as though she cared—which she did, obviously, but not so obviously around Father. Merlin, he couldn’t even _remember_ the last time she told _him_ a story about her day!

So Draco thinks he’s entitled to the glare he’s giving her, even if he knows he’ll get scolded for it later. It’s not until Mother’s done clucking and smoothing her fingers over his own furrowed brows that he begins picking moodily at his food—a surefire way to make her ask him what’s wrong, and this time’s no different.

But instead of apologizing and stopping it, Draco boldly declares, “There’s something worrying you.”

Mother gasps a little, though whether it’s at his bluntness or his direct look is something Draco can’t guess at. After looking into her eyes for a moment, he shrugs to himself and pokes a bit more at his food, until Mother looks away with a faint sigh and takes a sip of her tea.

“It’s nothing,” Mother says, but Draco can hear the _nothing that you should worry about_ she doesn’t quite say. “Why don’t you tell me about your lesson with Severus, today?”

Ordinarily, this would be enough to make him chatter about the latest potion he’d made and the ways Severus had praised him, as was natural for a Potions prodigy like himself. Ordinarily, Mother would nod and smile at all the right places—or, if Draco was _especially_ lucky, tell him a story about Severus when they were all at Hogwarts—and he’d bask in the attention. Ordinarily, he’d never think twice about whatever Mother had to hide because he’d be too busy regaling her with stories.

But all Draco does, instead, is set his fork on his plate and grumble, “ _Tell me_ what’s worrying you.”

“Draco,” Mother chides, and usually that’s enough to make Draco hang his head—but not today.

“You haven’t been talking _or_ listening to me,” Draco says, doing his best to hold Mother’s gaze when her eyes narrow in silent warning. “You and Father stop talking when I’m around and give each other these—these _looks_. I’m not _dumb_ , you know; I can tell you’re not paying attention to me!”

“ _Draco_ ,” Mother repeats, but her voice isn’t as steady as it should be and Draco pounces on it.

“ _Mother_.” Drawing himself up as tall and straight as he can, Draco does his best imitation of looking mature—which, as far as he’s concerned, means his best attempt at copying Father—and says, “I promise I can keep secrets and that I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Realistically, Draco’s aware that his promise means little or nothing at all. For all that he is a Malfoy—and, by default, someone with great potential for power—he is only the heir and can barely cast a handful of spells. Oh, things might change in a few years’ time, when Draco grows into his inheritance and has everything he could ever want or desire, but right now?

Draco knows, Mother knows, and they know the other knows. It’s a gamble in every sense of the word but Draco only tilts his chin a little and firms his jaw as best as he can, because Mother’s giving him a _look_ and he’d sooner touch a _Mudblood_ before he thinks about backing down.

Just when Draco’s about to break eye contact and give the whole thing up, stupid adult secrecy be damned, Mother sighs into her teacup and sets it gently upon the table. It takes more effort than he would’ve first imagined to keep his smugness—and his surprise, loath as he may be to admitting it—from his face, and he’s not quite sure he does a good job of it anyway.

 _But who cares? She’s going to_ tell _me, and that’s what_ really _matters._

So, admittedly, Draco can’t help showing a little less smugness and a little more surprise when Mother starts with, “Imagine you have adopted a Kneazle.”

“A _Kneazle?_ ”

“Yes, Draco, a Kneazle.”

Draco’s aware that gaping is unattractive and often results in Mother tapping his jaw and prompting him to close it, but… well. Imagining that he may adopt a Kneazle isn’t a problem in itself—he’d tried to ask for one on his fifth birthday, only for Father and Mother to take him to visit a dragon sanctuary instead because Malfoys had no need for commonplace things, let alone fussy pets—but having Mother talk about it _is_. After all, what’s _she_ going to do with a Kneazle?

 _She’s not telling me everything,_ Draco sulkily concludes, but what can _he_ do about it? Best to nod along and pretend he knows what’s going on, if only so he can figure it out later.

Unaware of his true intentions, Mother nods back and says, “Suppose that this Kneazle is a rare breed, one which everyone wants. Many people have searched for such a Kneazle but you, through a stroke of good fortune, have found it and wrested it from its owner.”

“Won’t the owner snatch it back?” Draco asks, unable to stop himself from wrinkling his nose. It’s something _he’d_ do if someone stole what was rightfully his—but then again, anyone with even a dash of sense would take back what was theirs.

“The owner is unaware that you have taken their Kneazle,” Mother replies, sounding so calm and self-assured that Draco doesn’t dare voice more complaints or questions. “Indeed, the owner is unaware of the Kneazle’s worth, and so will not miss it much anyway.”

It’s, quite honestly, a ludicrous statement. Draco bites back his objections with willpower he didn’t know he possessed before—because who wouldn’t miss something _rare_ and _precious_?—and nods, like he’s seen Mother do when she’s bored but Father’s hoping for a response. From the way Mother eyes him, he’s not sure he did a good job of it… but no matter.

 _Mother will explain herself,_ Draco contents himself with thinking, and smiles encouragingly at her. From the way she nods back and continues speaking, he knows that Mother is satisfied—for now.

“Others who seek the Kneazle do know of its worth, however. Under the guises of justice or benevolence—good will, Draco,” Mother adds, spotting the lost look he can’t quite hide in time, “they will take it away from you. They care not for your superior resources and claims, only in gratifying themselves.

“One possible solution is to have a… trusted individual care for the Kneazle in your stead.” Mother leans forward with glowing eyes and Draco unconsciously mirrors her. “Should anyone discover your Kneazle, they will take the fall for you, and you may have a chance to secure it—legitimately, for want of a better word. Whilst they tend to its daily needs, you can pay visits as discretion allows and train it, or play with it, as you like. The only issue is finding an individual that is both trustworthy and _worthy_ of caring for your Kneazle.”

“But Malfoys trust nobody,” Draco eventually says, crossing his arms and arching a brow. “How will we ever know that they won’t betray us for another?”

“Very good, Draco,” Mother replies, smiling in the way she only does when Draco has done something sufficiently praiseworthy. This time, his willpower’s almost not enough to stop him from grinning at her, but it helps when she adds, “but there are ways of ensuring loyalty. Recall the Unforgiveables, if you will.”

Draco does, mostly because the power they promised was _intoxicating_ and the mere prospect of using them or seeing someone under the influence of them was enough to make him shiver deliciously. Unfortunately, he only has a moment to _really_ consider the prospect when something nags at him.

“What’s stopping you from taking _anyone_ as the Kneazle’s caretaker, then?” When Mother’s brows rise, Draco hastens to explain himself. “Well, yes, you can’t take anyone _too_ well-known unless you want people to find your Kneazle quickly, and someone with too many friends or family members would be discovered too soon… but nobody can resist the Imperius Curse.

“Or is there another problem?” Draco asks, fingers drumming on the table despite Mother’s pointed look. “Since I don’t know _everything_ , I can only guess that… oh, who knows, you can’t find a _place_ that’s good enough for the Kneazle. Or even with the Imperius, you _can’t_ find it in yourself to trust anyone. Or the Imperius is so confining that _someone_ will discover something’s wrong sooner or later, and there’s your magnificent plan busted.”

For a moment, Mother’s eyes grow so dark that Draco’s tempted to excuse himself and flee, Kneazle puzzle be damned, but her expression smooths over with unnatural speed. Before Draco can so much as blink, though, she leans forward and murmurs, “Perhaps you can offer a solution, if you find mine so problematic.”

It’s as good a trap as any, but… in the face of Mother’s expectations, with the mysterious events for the past two weeks hinging on his decision, how can Draco back down?

 _Besides,_ Draco thinks, looking steadily into Mother’s eyes, _I already_ have _a solution. It’s just amazing that_ she _hasn’t thought of it yet—but then again, adults like complex things._

 _They just forget that, sometimes, simple is best._  


* * *

  
The determined pout on Draco’s face is so cute that Narcissa almost reaches forward to pat him on the head, an instinct that is both strange to her and unacceptable to her son. It’s unfortunate, really, that her son’s reached a stage in his development where he thinks he’s replaced the sun as the centre of the galaxy, and his natural Malfoy inclinations towards narcissism doesn’t help, either.

 _But encouraging him to think before he speaks will not do him much harm,_ Narcissa thinks indulgently, as Draco nods to himself and opens his mouth. _After all, this could be considered training for future endeavours. And it’s not as though he could harm the Saviour with his words._

It holds true, when she listens to her son’s words, but not in the way Narcissa thought it would.

Because harm is one thing, but this…

“Yes, Mother,” Draco sighs, when Narcissa only blinks at him, “I _said_ ‘disguise the Kneazle’. It _does_ look like a normal Kneazle, doesn’t it?”

Whilst it was true that Harry didn’t have physical deformities, anyone who had a passing acquaintance with his mother would instantly recognise her eyes—and those who knew his father would certainly see him in the rest of the boy. Granted, she _had_ cast Glamours on the boy to disguise the most obvious features… but it wasn’t viable as a long-term solution.

Was it?

“Spread a few rumours about how the rare Kneazle’s run away or died in a tragic accident,” Draco blithely continues, leaning back into his seat and waving his hands around to emphasize his point. “It can’t be _too_ hard to pretend it’s an ordinary one, right? And it’s not like anyone will figure out the Kneazle you have is _really_ the one everyone wants if you’re careful enough.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa faintly replies, but her mind is whirring and clicking in place.

Hiding in plain sight… it will be hard, far harder than passing Harry off to an agent acting under the Imperius and maintaining minimal contact with the boy. Falsified records, bribed officials and rumours with no discernible origin—would they secure a better long-term outcome, or would the effort simply go to waste?

 _Finding a safe-house and an unattached Pureblood indebted to me would also be hard,_ Narcissa rationalizes, as Draco reaches for the rest of his cake and talks in between small, neat bites. _But this will also be for Draco’s sake, in the end._

_And if I can keep Harry close, but under a different name…_

It’s certainly not the most concrete of plans, but Narcissa smiles at Draco’s enthusiasm and sips at her own cup of tea. She will try this idea and see where it leads her, in honour of her son’s quick wit—but if it fails, she will try her own way.

 _But either way,_ Narcissa thinks contentedly, _Harry will be ours._

The rest of her tea goes down sweetly, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would've tried to fit more definitive action (as in less dialogue and decision-making, and more of the actual _actions_ that will secure Harry's place in the Malfoy family) in, but everyone wanted to have their say and refused to be written out. Never let it be said that the Malfoys don't exercise their power whenever possible.
> 
> (Or perhaps I've been cursed to do their bidding because they could sense I was trying to shut them up. Who knows, really.)

**Author's Note:**

> Interested in having your say in the Malfoys' lives? Drop a suggestion into my [ask box](http://chiarosekuro.tumblr.com/ask) and I might slot your idea in if it works!


End file.
